We've Got to Stop Meeting Like This

I remember as a young kid, maybe 7 or 8 at the time, bemoaning to my mom my inherent ordinariness. "I'm so ordinary, mom. There's nothing special about me. Jimmy's special: it's right there in his needs!" (My oldest brother, Jim, had Down syndrome.) "Jeanne and Jack are twins, so that makes them special. Andrew's special because he's the baby. But there's nothing special about me."

Feigning shock, Mom replied, "Not special? What? You're special because you're the best and only Linda in our whole family! We'd be so sad if we had a family without a Linda in it!" And somehow that satisfied my 8 year old ego and I took my rightful place on the special pedestal. 

That memory came back to me one day a few years ago when 96 mentioned that, while he was sure I liked him fine, he feared I didn't think there was anything special about Pixel. It was an easy misundertanding to explain:  C was, well, C! And tiny Ada was a gorgeous weirdo, with her ear tufts and her beautiful long coat, and her habit of demanding to be let out the front door, only to walk around to the back and immediately howl to be let back in. One hundred times a day. Momo might have been Tom's reincarnation (based on their shared love of sitting in the warm sun I was never able to fully rule this out), while Scruffy had those crazy paws and that glossy coat. All, by definition, special. Pixel was "just" that tabby I pulled out from under someone's porch.

But Pixel? Ordinary? That was a bridge too far, and an accusation I could not let stand.  Pixel and his siblings, Alpha and Gummitch, had come to us under somewhat false pretenses: A friend put out a call on social media in the summer of 2006 that a cat had abandoned her four calico kittens under their deck. I volunteered my Havahart trap for the low low price of taking two of the kittens. Tom approved, and looked forward to meeting our newest family members. 

Gummitch in back; Pixel front left, Alpha, right

So imagine my surprise when, one by one, we pulled kittens out of the trap that afternoon. Tabbies, one and all. Two grey, two orange, but not a calico in the mix. "Oops," my friend said, upon my commenting something along the lines of, "These aren't calicos at all. They're just ordinary tabbies" because I'm super gracious like that. 

My friend took one of the orange tabbies (she named him Lanai), but what was I going to do with not one, not two, but three POTCs (plain old tabby cats)? I tossed the two kids and the three cats back into the car and headed home, stopping unannounced and panicked at another friend's house with the hopes she might want one or two. Or three. Lucky for us, she wasn't home.

I prepared Tom as best I could. "They're cute," I said. "They're sweet. I'm sure they'll make great pets. But they're not calicos," I told him. I didn't mention that there were three of them. Oops.

Alpha had a brief stint at at a neighbor's house, but their Pomeranian pulled rank and after a few days we were back to a family of four humans and five cats (Scruffy's origin story was written a few weeks later.)

I came to appreciate the charms of all the kittens, and their personalities showed through early. Alpha was the adventurer we predicted on Day One, having escaped the nest I had made for them before any of his brothers. And Gummy was the lap cat, always ready to burrow into a lap or under a couch cushion. 

And I quickly came to see just how special little Pixel was. He had the silkiest, smoothest coat. And a personality that far outsized that tiny kitten body. He was a "woolie," a term I had never heard before, but it describes a cat who, for cat reasons (often momma's sudden departure), sucks on fabric that has some kind of nap or texture to it. It might be a bathmat, or it might be a towel, or it might be an electric blanket. In Pixel's case it was all of these things and more. He chewed through two of electric blankets, right down to exposing wires, before I finally discovered heated mattress pads, which are far more cat-resistant, although anyone who has ever owned a cat knows that nothing on the planet is actually cat-proof.

Poor C learned to tolerate Pixel suckling on him, too; and the others climbing Mount C for play and excercise. Poor, put-upon C. Ada just lurked in the distance, snickering silently, all the while thinking, better you than me, dude. 

When I moved to DC in 2019, Zoet came with me, but the cats stayed with 96; and by this summer it was just him and Pixel. When 96 moved to Oregon a few weeks ago, Pixel accompanied him as a carryon in the passenger cabin, joining Hannah her cat Ezra to began building their own little cattery in Eugene.

A few weeks ago Pixel was feeling under the weather, and his new vet uncovered an array of issues, including diabetes and diabetic ketoacidosis. Further testing also revealed lung tumors, and with sad memories of my having likely extended Scruffy's suffering by trying to treat his cancer a couple of years ago, 96 made the wise decision not to treat, to minimize his discomfort and to euthanize. 

So I've had a bit of time to remember just how special Pixel was, and how he was the softest, blanketiest, best damned Pixel in our whole family. Ours would have been an incomplete family indeed if we had not had our special Pixel rounding out menagerie. 

RIP Pixel, who crossed the Rainbow Bridge in peace and comfort, with his humans by his side.

It's Cicada O'Clock Somewhere

It started out almost imperceptible, in early May, sounding like the soft snore Zoet made when she slept. It sounded so much like her in fact that I turned to look for her and decided that the cats must be breathing particularly loudly that day, which turned into a couple of days. That was followed by an irritating, distant tractor. Not loud enough to close the patio doors, but loud enough to scowl, stare sternly in the noise's direction, and wonder why it's taking so long to mow the grass.

Then the jet planes started circling overhead, just the constant drone of a jet coming in for a landing but never quite finding the runway and circling around again.

You know the Brood X emergence is starting when you see their little holes in the ground as they dig themselves out. If you're lucky you'll see a muddy chimney reinforcement. Then you see the last pupal stage, at least if you look fast, because once they're out of the ground they shed that last exoskeleton (by this time they've already shed four or so while still underground) and leave it in some random place for you to sit on, or for it to fall on you, or, if you're a cat and you're lucky, your momma brings you one to bat around.

Then, you're all cicadas, all the time. Well, from dawn until dusk anyway. 

My completely unscientific, anecdotal evidence and observations (based on a sample size of exactly one, with a margin of error rate of +/- 100%) allow me to draw a few conclusions:

Once they find a safe, secure point to latch to they flex their little  cicada shoulder muscles and in an Incredible Hulk-like transformation (watch the video and tell me I'm wrong), they burst through their exoskeleton, emerging colorless, except for those crazy red eyes. I caught this one in the evening and time-lapse-videoed (is that a word?) the transformation, which seemed to be synched with dawn. Watch the sliver of window on the right to see what I mean.

Gradually over the course of an hour or two they harden and deepen in color to the now-familiar black, sometimes with a striped underbelly and delicate, transparent wings edged in orange. And they'll hang around a bit if you name them. 

These images were taken over the course of about 90 minutes, beginning minutes after the hulking? Exit from the exoskeleton? I can't really call it an explosion because cicadas already use that word for something else ...

... This year's Brood X periodical cicadas have spent 17 years underground, sipping liquid from the small roots of trees (they particularly like maple I've been told) at about 8 inches below the surface. If, while digging their way out at the end of the cycle they happen to pass through a particular mass of fungus, the fungus attaches itself, gets inside the exoskeleton, and takes over what I will for the sake of a PG rating call the back end of the cicada. The fungus eventually takes control of the cicada, until the fungus's turn to to reproduce, at which time they, let's just say, explode. Click at your own risk, but I promise you won't be sorry. (Credit SmithsonianMagazine.com, May 20,2021.)

No matter how many you've seen (hundreds? probably thousands), no matter how close you've gotten (inches), no matter how many photos you've uploaded to #CicadaSafari (457 if you're me) you're still allowed to scream when they land on you. I don't make the rules.

Little did I know at the time that I first heard those barely audible snores that became an irritant that became a complaint that became my very own tiny jet engines that they would so quickly become the obsession that has me planning a vacation around the Brood XIX emergence in 2024. (Hello, Missouri!)

I have too many photos not to share a few (don't be fooled: it's not a few) of my favorites. Not in the least bit sorry about it, either. Just pretend each one is labelled, "Cicada, greater DC area, Spring 2021." That'll make it easier for all of us.

When Doors Close ...

It shouldn't have to be said, but I really was joking about this being a place for eulogizing dead pets this past November when I lost Zoet. 

Meanwhile, (spoiler alert) Momo started acting off around Thanksgiving, turning her nose up at mealtime, a distinctly un-Momo-ish way to act. At first the vet thought it was just an infection and antibiotics were begun, to no effect. Eventual test results came back indicating that she had lymphoma, and without treatment she would swiftly decline. So 96 began her on a course of chemo, only then to realize that her decline would be swift and precipitous even with chemo, and he withdrew treatment in mid-January.

I was glad to be able to drive up to Boston for an overnight to say a proper goodbye to her. She's been a bit more than a cat to me; you may remember that purely by chance she came into our lives and took over our hearts the weekend after we lost C; and by even greater serendipity I learned she had been born the day after Tom died. Tom, of the infamous, "Linda, if I die I want to come back as your cat." That Tom. So while I don't believe in reincarnation, I also can't not believe in reincarnation, either, and little Momo, napper in chief, always had first pick of pillows at bedtime. The veterinarians at Mass Vet Referral Hospital, as always, were so kind and honest with us, and she crossed over the rainbow bridge in comfort in January. I'm sure Zoet was happy to see her familiar face as they were good friends, both always choosing a nap or a good meal over a run outside. Because outside ... there be monsters!

Momo doing Momo, but check out that lawn

96 even tried a feeding tube. No one liked that, least of all Momo.

Momo feat. Pixel

Where's the window opening, you might ask.

Say hello to Abigail (Adams) and Clara (Barton),  a mother/daughter pair that adopted me a month ago.

The clipped ear indicates her spay status

Abigail, a formerly feral cat who benefited from a catch/spay/release program run by PAWS of PA, is clearly  part meerkat -- but also part stubborn mule, which I learned the hard way when it was time for her first vet visit. She spent the next week under my bed, and I spent the next week checking for proof of life a few times each day. We'll get to the vet eventually, I hope. She's actually FIV+ so I assume we'll get to know the vets soon enough.

I've been leaving food for her (under the bed) and I tossed in a few of her toys. I will occasionally hear the  bock-bock-bock of a catnip chicken toy I did not realize (until 3 am the second night) came with sound effects, so at least I know she's entertaining herself under there. She's slowly warming up to me, I think.  She's started joining me for breakfast in the kitchen each morning and lets me pet her as long as I don't try any funny business like putting her in my lap.

  

Abigail not feeling too sure about any of this

  

Clara is doing her part to reinforce all the kitten stereotypes, chasing her tail, knocking any damn thing into the bathroom sink I deign to leave on the counter, attacking my toes at 3am. And posing for pictures.  So. Many. Pictures. 

Thank you Jen for clipping those claws before releasing her to me, but she's going to need a pawdicure again  pretty soon. 

Even before Abigail and Clara adopted me, I had decided to leave my Christmas tree up, lights and all, until I'm able to share a real holiday meal with the kids. I'm pretty sure Clara thinks I did this for her. (Don't tell!) If I'm known as that lady with the Christmas tree, so be it. I light my fake tree, and I ignite my fake fireplace, and I watch my kitten shimmy up the tree and eat my ornaments and something, at least for today, is right with the world. 

                                          

Now I can't take it down!